The Best Gesture
by Acey Dearest
Summary: Light is perfect, so she must be perfect for him. And when perfection is unattainable, Misa strives anyway. Set during the chained chapters.


"The Best Gesture"

by Acey

Author's Note: Set sometime during the early chained chapters. Very vague L/Misa, pronouncedly one-sided Light/Misa (shoot me now, get it over, peanut gallery –smiles- I've been here far too long). Standard disclaimers.

When Misa was nervous, she would pile on the cosmetics. Lipsticks, concealers, and tubes of mascara would appear like a magician's trick, and before anyone could say a word she was on her way to begin the adjustments.

She knew better than to ever ask Light if all the make-up was exactly even. He would shrug in disinterest, mind on the case even during the rare moments when his eyes were on her. For today, Misa persisted, instead, in producing eye-shadow in six different shades and inquiring which his favorite was.

"The blue one," he said, and Misa frowned—there were two blue ones and she had wanted to wear the black besides.

"This one," she held it up, "or _this_ one, Light?"

She avoided L's gaze as she said it, refusing to give him an opening to say a word. The detective only looked on in a sort of sardonic pleasure.

Light sighed and pointed with his free hand to the darker shade. Like the color of bruises, Misa thought, her face wrinkling for a second in spite of her reply.

"Misa loves that color! Don't go anywhere, Light—let Misa wash off the eye-shadow she has on right now to put on Light's favorite!"

She bounded into one of the empty hotel suites without a backward glance.

--

She spent too long staring into the bathroom's mirror, too long deciding that the game of holding Light's attention should be extended as long as possible and so she ought to wash off all her make-up and only apply the eye-shadow. By the time she rushed out, Light was still in the same room, but he had stopped waiting on her and was back to sitting with L, discussing the case. On the table were three plates of doughnuts, which L was busy consuming with his usual distasteful rapid-fire.

"Li-ight! Misa is back!"

Light turned his head toward her, not even bothering to hide his annoyance.

"Misa, can it wait?"

"But—but Misa—I—"

L swallowed a particularly large bite of doughnut with something that looked almost like pain. _Stupid pervert_, Misa thought, _hope you choke, getting Light away from me like that—unfair— _

"She wanted to show you her make-up, Yagami. We haven't been over anything new; the case can wait—"

Misa tilted her chin defiantly away from the detective, hating L suddenly for taking it upon himself to be her defender. If L noticed, he said nothing, just went back to his doughnuts.

"Oh, all right," Light said, distant, cold. So now he would not even put on the pretense of interest in her.

_Well, that's okay. Misa doesn't have to have any rules to play by._

"This is the one Light picked out!" and she pointed unnecessarily before she continued. "Misa was wearing a shade like this, though," she pointed to a tube of glittery green, "when Misa was first chosen for _Comikuri_'s cover two years ago! But Misa has not worn it much since."

Light reached across the table with his free hand for a doughnut, following L's poor example. Two hundred seventy-five calories per doughnut, twenty-four doughnuts—six thousand, six hundred calories. Minus the doughnut Light had just taken would make it six thousand, three hundred twenty-five, and L showed no signs of stopping to allow Light to eat another. Misa imagined the glut of it all in one stomach and shuddered inwardly.

"I think I remember that cover," L said. "Weren't you wearing a striped dress?"

Misa's eyebrows arched up in surprise.

"Misa was! Misa liked that dress, but of course it was only for the shoot and Misa couldn't keep it..."

"Where did you find something like _that_ out, Ryuuzaki?" Light's tone was between amused and bewildered. L didn't reply.

"Pink with white stripes?"

"Yes," Misa begrudged him. "You have a very good memory, Ryuuzaki."

L moved his fingers along the rim of one of the already empty plates, collecting the remnants of sugar. Misa winced, thinking for a moment that he was going to lick it off, but he only wiped his hands off on a napkin.

"Anyway, Misa," Light said suddenly, and she gladly swerved her attention toward him, cheerfully telling herself that Light had probably never licked his fingers in his life, "can't we get on with it now? Your make-up looks fine—"

"But Misa was going to redo it all for you!" She glanced wildly at him, trying not to believe. "Misa has not gotten to model _anything_ to anyone for so long! And you've seen all my clothes so that would be no fun—so Misa thought maybe you could pick all the make-up colors and Misa could put those on instead—"

Light looked at her in surprise.

"I thought you just wanted to know what I thought about the mascara."

Misa shook her head. Of course Light didn't understand. She hadn't told him; she had only just thought of it earlier, so that was fine. That was all right—that was her wonderful Light, just distracted by things that were out of his control—that was all right. Light was perfect; she must be perfect for him.

But she wanted desperately to be selfish. Wanted to beg him out of his indifference, wail, cry—want—tell him how it was hurting, how it was _aching_ to pretend and pretend and pretend that he loved her. Wanted—

Instead she only returned his authority.

"But if you don't like it, Light... if you don't want to, then Misa, I, I can go. And you both can go back... to your case..."

She had dropped the make-up tubes and powders and bottles, and they fell on top of the mess of doughnut remnants and napkins. The bottles refused to shatter in their plastic containers, the metal tubes would not burst. The powders would not taint the food. And if they had, would Light have gone on without her, and L have sat there with the doughnuts poisoned with cosmetics and ate them still as he spoke?

Light had not replied but Misa knew his answer. It was only fair—she had provided his escape route and he was only taking it. The case would be over someday and then he might come and be brilliant for her. They might live together; they might marry—she wouldn't, couldn't cry now because it was a childish, silly thing—it would ruin the make-up—

She did not expect L's low monotone to override the silence first.

"Stay, Misa."

finis


End file.
